Deed of Glory (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  He went to the bar where Jacques might call, ordered a beer and settled down at a table near the telephone. He borrowed a newspaper but could not concentrate on it. He was on edge. His unease was like the tension he felt in the torrid heat of summer before a storm broke. But this was a calm winter’s night.

  14: “…we’re ducks in a barrel!”

  The night was dark under a clouded sky but they had the promise of a moon later. There was light enough for Ward, on the bridge of Phoebe, to see the long lines of launches stretching away into the distance astern. Joe Krueger, solid and calm, and Peter Madden stood either side of him. Jameson, the Sub, was aft with the Oerlikon there. Both Oerlikons were manned and so was the Lewis mounted on the bridge. Petty Officer Doyle was on the fo’c’sle talking to Beare. A leading-seaman was at the wheel because Ward was saving Doyle for the final crucial run in.

  “There it is!” Joe lowered his glasses and pointed, “Fine on the port bow.”

  “Seen.” Ward watched the tiny light through his glasses as it blinked in morse the letter M. It came from H.M. Submarine Sturgeon, acting as a navigational beacon, the marker for the start of the approach to St. Nazaire.

  Joe said, “That was a swell piece of navigation.”

  Ward nodded agreement, “Green knows his stuff. Better him than me.” The lieutenant, Commander Ryder’s navigational expert on board the leading M.G.B., had brought them unerringly to this point on the dark and empty sea. And his job was not finished yet, not by a long chalk.

  The escorting destroyers, Atherstone and Tynedale, turned away to start their patrol around the rendezvous point where the force would reassemble in the dawn for the return home. Ward wondered how many of them would make it. They sailed in the attack formation now, the M.G.B. leading with Ryder, Newman the commando colonel, and Green aboard. Astern of the M.G.B. steamed the disguised destroyer Campbeltown and on either side of her seven Fairmiles in line ahead. A single Fairmile and the M.T.B. brought up the rear. The M.T.B. carried torpedoes with delayed-action fuses. Wynn, her commander, had the task of firing them at the southern dock-gate if Campbeltown failed to ram it. Phoebe sailed between the columns and a cable’s length astern of Campbeltown.

  They passed Sturgeon, her hull submerged and only her conning-tower showing. Ward peered at his watch: ten fifteen.

  Forty miles to go.

  *

  He looked at his watch again when the glow of searchlights and the flashes of gunfire lit the horizon ahead. The rumble of the barrage came rolling dully, distantly out to them. It was eleven thirty.

  “That’s the diversionary air-raid starting.” Peter Madden cocked his head on one side, listening. Bomber Command had been ordered to mount a raid to divert German attention from the estuary to the sky. Peter muttered uneasily, “There’s a hell of a lot of flak going up but I can’t hear anything like a bomb-burst.”

  Nor could Ward. He looked up at the cloud ceiling and wondered if the bomber pilots were under orders only to try for specific targets so as not to cause casualties to the French? If so, then with this cloud the bomb-aimers would be helpless, able to see little or nothing below them. It’s not going to work, he thought. All it’ll do will be to wake ’em up and keep ’em on the alert.

  The ships of CHARIOT were still at sea, the estuary of the Loire hidden in the darkness ahead.

  *

  Half past midnight. Joe Krueger said softly, awed, “Look at that! She must have been one hell of a big ship!”

  Masts and massive funnel stuck up out of the sea to port and Ward said, “Lancastria. She was a luxury liner before the war.” He had passed her wreck in the high summer of 1940 when returning to England in Saracen—with Catherine Guillard aboard.

  The air-raid was over. The guns were silent, the search-lights doused, the drone of aircraft engines had faded away. Some bombs had fallen; they had seen the flashes and heard the crump of them. Ward knew that Catherine must be there now. Her duty lay in St. Nazaire, that was why she had returned there and would be in the town now. Under the bombs? Dead?

  The voice of Doyle came up the pipe: “Coxswain at the wheel, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Down in the wheelhouse the morphine and the dressings were laid out in readiness. The tiny Phoebe had no other quarters for her wounded: she was entering the mouth of the Loire and in just an hour or so from now…

  Ward put thoughts of Catherine from him and went over it all in his mind again.

  *

  The port of St. Nazaire lay six miles up-river and on its western shore. The estuary was wide but mostly shallow and the only deep-water channel ran close to the western shore—and under the enemy guns. So the plan was to approach through the shallows, out in the estuary and away from the guns, and enter the channel only a mile from the port. That was why Campbeltown had been stripped and emptied so that she rode high in the water and drew only eleven feet.

  Approaching up that last mile of the deep-water channel the outstretched arms of two breakwaters guarded the port’s Southern Entrance with its lock, crossed by a swing bridge. That lock led to the St. Nazaire basin, with the U-boat pens on its left-hand or western side. Between the lock of the Southern Entrance and the channel lay the Old Town with its Place, the square looking out over the St. Nazaire basin. Another lock at St. Nazaire basin’s far end led to the Penhouet basin which connected with the northern gate of their target, the giant Normandie dock.

  The ships of CHARIOT, however, would keep to the channel past the Southern Entrance and on. From the river bank here the Old Mole jutted out into the channel, a stone pier a hundred yards long with a lighthouse at its end and a landing slip on its northern side, and beyond that lay the Old Entrance from the river to the St. Nazaire basin, again with a lock, crossed at the basin end by another swing bridge.

  North of the Old Entrance were gates directly on the river, leading into the Normandie dock, which connected via a further pair of gates with the Penhouet basin, thus completing the circular grid of docks and basins.

  A winding-house stood on the left or west side of the Normandie dock by each massive gate. They held engines which opened the gates by drawing them back into recesses, closed them by pushing them out. Close by the southern winding-house was a pump-house, its pumps some forty feet below ground. To dry-dock a ship you opened the southern gate to the river with the northern one closed, brought the ship into the dock, closed the southern gate then pumped the dock dry.

  So the route of the attacking force would lead past the Southern Entrance, past the Old Mole and then the Old Entrance to the southern gate of the Normandie dock. The commandos in the launches of the port column were to land at the Old Mole, those in the starboard column in the Old Entrance. Their orders were to capture and destroy a range of targets stretching from guns at the Southern Entrance, and the lock gates there, to the bridge at the north end of the St. Nazaire basin. And to secure the Old Mole as the point of re-embarkation of the force.

  All these targets were important but the main one was the Normandie dock and that was for Campbeltown. Her commandos were to blow up the northern gate, the pump-house and the two winding-houses. Campbeltown herself would be used as a hammer to smash the southern gate. The gates of the dock were closed, it was pumped dry and held two ships under repair.

  Ward was to take Phoebe into the Old Entrance hard by the dock and land Madden with his men. They were to cross the bridge over the Old Entrance and follow the road northward along the side of the St. Nazaire basin for some two hundred yards to the last building but one. They would find Dönitz there.

  After landing them Ward would pull Phoebe out into the channel, then return later to the Old Mole to pick them up, with their prisoner, when the force was re-embarked.

  He thought, And the catch?

  There were twenty-eight coastal guns spread along the banks of the river and thirty-seven Bofors or Oerlikons, 40mm or 20mm guns, in or around St. Nazaire—or, Ward thought, the German equivalent, but call them B
ofors or Oerlikons because the name on the gun didn’t matter if the name on the shell was yours. Those thirty-seven guns were mounted on towers or bunkers and so were difficult to hit with gunfire from sea-level, a nightmare to assault from the ground. A flakship was anchored out in the channel opposite the Old Mole. The Penhouet basin held three minesweepers and there were five more in the St. Nazaire basin along with the five destroyers and the E-boat Ward had seen in the aerial photographs. Some might have left—or there could be more now; CHARIOT had kept wireless silence, heard nothing since they sailed. Small craft such as tugs were scattered about both basins and even these would mount weapons, if only machine-guns. Only? One machine-gun could be too much.

  Five thousand men defended St. Nazaire and just six hundred commandos and seamen were to attack it.

  Ward thought it did no good to dwell on odds.

  He had his orders: Get Madden and his men in, and out again.

  *

  Peter Madden climbed to the bridge and said softly, “There’s the land!” He carried his helmet now, swinging by the strap from one hand. Joe Krueger seemed calm as ever but Peter was restless, ready to go.

  Ward made out the distant, low-lying smudge of the coast about two miles away off the port bow. In 1940 the Messerschmitts had come howling out of there, flying low over the estuary and he had shouted at Catherine Guillard to get below to Saracen’s wardroom.

  It was quiet now but there would be eyes on that shore. Watching the ships of CHARIOT? The strung-out little squadron altered course marginally to 050 degrees. Then speed was reduced to ten knots. Ward knew that was because of Campbeltown: Beattie, her captain, had found that she settled by the stern at speeds over ten knots and drew another two or three feet. He might well need those extra feet under her keel because Campbeltown would soon be running into shoal water.

  *

  Patrick stood in the waist of Campbeltown with the other commandos in a shallow-breathing quiet. They looked out to the western shore of the estuary, a low, crumpled line cut dark against the night sky and they could smell the land. Their webbing equipment marked them; it was white and stood out more clearly in the darkness than their weathered faces. That was by Colonel Newman’s order, so they would recognise friend from foe. For that reason also every man had a blue pencil-light taped to his rifle, Thompson or Bren. They stood between the protective steel barriers on Campbeltown’s deck, ready to drop down behind them when they came under fire.

  Like the commandos in the launches, those aboard Campbeltown were divided into three types of party: Demolition, each man carrying a pack of up to ninety pounds of explosive and fuses. Protection, heavily armed to guard the demolition men who, because of their huge packs, were only armed with Colt .45 pistols. And assault, those thirty men led by Lieutenant Roderick and Captain Roy. Roderick and Roy: Patrick thought it sounded like a music-hall act, like Murray and Mooney. The two young officers were admittedly high-spirited, but there would be nothing comic about their performances tonight. They would be first ashore. Lieutenant Roderick and his men were to silence the guns on the right of the dock-gate, clear that area and hold it against any counter-attack until recalled. Captain Roy’s group had to silence the guns on the left of the gate, then seize and hold the bridge over the Old Entrance. That bridge would be the way back for all of them to the re-embarkation point at the Old Mole. If Roy or Roderick failed then God help the rest of them.

  Patrick waited with nerves strung tight, knowing this was shoal water. In theory Campbeltown should slip over the banks but that depended on the height of the tide and the accuracy of Lieutenant Green’s navigation. He had to be one hundred per cent right and who could be that, sailing strange waters in darkness? And this was no mere theoretical exercise. If Campbeltown ran aground then the German gunners would use her for target practice at their leisure.

  She grounded. Patrick felt the shudder and it came back to him through the frame of the ship like a ground-wave as Campbeltown checked on the sandbank then slowly pushed over it. The shudder ran away towards the stern, faded and was gone.

  Patrick let out his held breath and tried to think of other things. Sarah Benjamin. He had deliberately not read her letter until Campbeltown was at sea: it would have been all too easy to write back to her, comforting her, perhaps even reassuring her, and leaving all kinds of loose ends behind him. He thought now that he had been right, for once.

  She had written: ‘I can’t do the little girl wronged bit and I’m not good at begging. But I wasn’t playing fast and loose with you, even though you thought I was. I met my husband when I was seventeen and I loved him. He ditched me because he found another woman who could help him in his career and I couldn’t—or maybe he just took her into his bed in London because she was there and I wasn’t. I don’t know, but it was all over long before I met you.

  ‘That’s all. I just wanted you to know the truth. Next time you’re on leave perhaps we’ll get in touch. I pray for you, my dear…

  So, all right, she had once called him a bastard and he was. The affair was finished, on his side, anyway. That was best, considering his occupation and its hazards. He was glad he had finally succeeded in painting her, finally captured the elusive fragility in her smile and the lost yet eager look in her wide eyes. Not bad, if he did say so himself. At least he’d have done a little good work if this trip turned out to be a—

  Campbeltown grounded again, checked for a heartbeat then slowly slid on with the tremor running back through her again as she pushed clear of the bank.

  Patrick swallowed. He was not afraid. All the way across, fear had lurked in the back of his mind but now it was gone. He had made no promises to Sarah and he was glad of that because it was unlikely he would be able to keep them. There were demolition teams below whose tasks were to blow up the northern dock-gate and winding-house. He was one of the party detailed to protect them as they worked. If they got the quarter mile to the other end of the dock from where they would go ashore. If they got ashore at all. If they were not all blown to hell before they got any-where near the dock. Yet he was not afraid. Funny, that.

  He demanded impatiently inside himself, Come on! Let’s get on with it!

  *

  The time had dragged for Turner as he sat in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Jacques was continually in and out, keeping a watch on the road and around the house. Turner wondered if there were really German patrols about in the area or was Jacques just obeying an order given by the girl, and over zealously? Turner decided, from what he’d seen of young Jacques, that the latter was the case. Either way, Jacques’ constant presence was a nuisance. It prevented the Englishman from getting away and seeking out a German patrol on his own account.

  His job was almost done. He had only to make a telephone call, pass the name Catherine Guillard and claim his reward. Then soon he would be a power in the Party, sitting in the big, chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He looked around the kitchen and wrinkled his nose. He would have spacious quarters, probably a house in the country. There would be servants. Women.

  He chafed. The old people went to bed but he still had a long time to wait before Jacques finally led him across to the loft by the light of his torch. The boy made one of his dramatic little speeches and then left.

  Turner was glad to see the back of him. He prepared to go but, watching from the little window, saw Jacques still prowling around the house. Then the air-raid started and the boy stood in the yard to watch. Turner swore. He could see the criss-crossing of sweeping searchlight beams and the bursting of flak. Now and again he caught the distant drone of the bombers’ engines but heard few bombs fall.

  He fretted for half an hour before his patience gave out and he decided there was no reason to wait. He could see Jacques in the yard but the boy was obviously still intent on the raid. Besides, the noise of the flak would cover any sound Turner made. So he groped his way down the ladder, eased out of the door and worked his way around the yard behind Jacques then down the side of the house.
Even the dog was no problem. It had yelped and whined ever since the raid started so that now, when it barked at Turner sidling past, Jacques did not even look round. Turner walked down the track to the road and turned right. One way was as good as another.

  It was some minutes later that it occurred to Jacques that the airman would be awake; he would not sleep through this din. It also occurred to him that he might see more from the window of the loft than from the yard so he climbed the ladder and called, “M’sieur!” He switched on the torch and shone it on himself so the airman would see he was not a stranger. There was no answer. He swept the loft with his torch, scurried about it, tossing aside the hay, then paused bewildered at the head of the ladder.

  The loft was empty. The airman had gone.

  He remembered Catherine Guillard’s warning, that the airman would become bored, impatient. But not so soon, surely! He also remembered his instructions and the telephone number—but there was no telephone at the farm. He dropped down the ladder from the loft and ran out of the barn and along the track. When he reached the road he turned to the right. There was a doctor in the village only a half kilometre away who would let him use the telephone.

  The air-raid was still in progress with searchlights sweeping the sky and sporadic bursts of flak. Because his attention was distracted he almost ran into the German patrol. He trotted round a bend, panting and flagging now, saw men standing in the road ahead and halted, darted into the shadow of the hedgerow. He could make out four soldiers, their rifles slung over their shoulders. The British airman stood in the centre of their group, bare-headed. The flak ceased momentarily and now Jacques could hear a man speaking vehemently. It sounded like the airman’s voice but it was speaking fluent German so it had to be one of the patrol.

  The group moved, the airman still at its centre, headed towards the village and Jacques followed, uncertain what to do. They came to the village, the soldiers’ boots clattering on the pave. Jacques trailed them to the house the Germans had requisitioned as a guardpost and when they went inside he crept up to the window. It was blacked-out so he could see nothing but he heard the voices, and all were German. The raid had ceased, the lights were snuffed out and the guns silent. He stood in the stillness right by the window and listened.